


The Answer Lies With You

by cowboyguy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboyguy/pseuds/cowboyguy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hunt gone wrong, and something's not right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Answer Lies With You

They’re driving fast – too fast – down a deserted mountain road, the Impala’s headlights the only thing standing between them and the pitch black night. But a hunt gone wrong means a quick getaway, so Sam holds his tongue until they start to get closer to civilization. He just stares out the front windshield at the dark road in front of them, casting occasional looks over at his brother. Dean’s hyper-focused, the way he gets when they’re on a hunt and the job is all he’s thinking about. His shotgun – which turned out to be _really_ ineffective – is still sitting on the bench seat between them, and Sam can practically see the gears in Dean’s brain turning, analyzing the near-disastrous encounter they just had, trying to figure out their next move.

Dean’s thinking about the hunt, but all Sam can really think about is how crappy he’s starting to feel. This cold that started out as a little thing when he first woke up is kind of developing into a big thing. Every sharp turn Dean takes, every dip in the winding two-lane road makes the crap in Sam’s head shift, worsening the sinus pressure. And if he didn’t already have a headache after getting thrown into a tree, he definitely does now. All he wants is a bed and a dark room and a really big box of tissues.

But Sam knows better than to make a big deal about his cold. The hunt is more important, and he knows that’s what Dean will say. It’s usually pointless to try reasoning with Dean when he’s like this, and Sam’s not in the mood to start a discussion about it, reasonable or otherwise. So he slouches a little further down in the passenger seat, trying to get comfortable, and keeps an eye out for a hotel that doesn’t look too sketchy as the highway widens and they start to drive by small towns.

“Dean,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m pretty sure the uh, skinwalker’s far enough away now.”

Dean shakes his head, eyes still focused on the road. “No, man, once they catch your scent, they don’t stop coming after you. But I’ve got no idea how to kill this thing, and Bobby won’t pick up his damn phone. We gotta keep moving.”

“Bobby?” Sam repeats.

“Yeah, Bobby,” Dean says. “You know, guy with all the nice, informative books on monster-killing? I haven’t seen a skinwalker in years, since we were kids, maybe. We need more info before we go after this thing again.”

Sam is silent for a moment, before he dares to ask, “Dean, are you _sure_ that’s what it was?”

Dean glances sideways at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m pretty sure it was an actual friggin’ bear, dude,” Sam says, wide-eyed at the memory of the huge beast lumbering through the woods toward them.

Dean snorts. “What monster were you hunting? It was definitely a skinwalker, Sam.”

 _But you just said you needed more info,_ Sam thinks, but doesn’t voice his frustration. He sighs congestedly and answers, “Fine. But let’s find a hotel, okay? Like you said, we need to do some more research on this thing before we go running back into the woods in the middle of the night.”

Dean thinks about this for a moment, then acquiesces, nodding his agreement.

Sam turns to look out the window again as they drive past shopping centers and housing developments. About a mile further down the road, he perks up, getting Dean’s attention. “There,” he says, pointing to the bright neon sign in front of a Holiday Inn a little ways up the road.

Dean laughs, in what is becoming an all-too-familiar ‘are you stupid?’ kind of way. “What, you want fluffy towels and a mint on your pillow, too, princess?”

“No!” Sam retorts. “I just… I’ve got some extra cash. I, uh… won a pool game.”

“Yeah?” Dean looks mildly impressed, like maybe Sam actually can do something right. “When did that happen?”

“Couple of nights ago,” Sam says, coughing softly into his fist. “We were at that bar.”

“Huh. Not bad, Sammy,” Dean comments as they pull into the parking lot. He stops the Impala in front of the hotel entrance and hops out of the car, heading through the automatic doors into the brightly-lit lobby.

Sam stays in the car, because Dean can book a hotel room on his own. Instead, he sneezes quickly into his shoulder a couple of times, sniffling after the tickle fades, and pulls out his phone to check for messages.

* * *

Dean comes back out in a couple of minutes and drives them around to the side of the building, where they both get out and Sam surreptitiously goes through the messy trunk before any passerby sees the small arsenal stashed inside. He grabs a couple of books that he thinks Dean will want to look through, along with their laptops and duffels. He hands Dean his gear, and traipses after his brother, who is already making a beeline for the side door, plastic keycard in hand.

When they get to the room, with its comfortable-looking beds, big screen TV, and functioning air conditioner, Sam nearly sighs out loud in relief. He’s gotten sick of the constant crappy motels that Dean insists on. It’s nice to be staying somewhere decent for once, especially when all he really wants to do is curl up under the warm covers and sleep until this cold goes away.

But he can’t do that yet.

“Dean, we need to talk,” he says solemnly as he sets his bags on the couch. He dreads saying the words even as they’re coming out of his mouth, and apparently with good reason, because Dean instantly tenses up, shooting a glare in Sam’s direction.

“Sam, I don’t need you to fix me. You’re not my damn psychiatrist.”

“Psychologist.”

“Whatever.” Dean angrily throws his bag on one of the beds, scowling at his brother.

But this conversation is happening now, so Sam jumps right in. “I’m not _trying_ to fix you, Dean,” he insists. “I’m just trying to help. I care about you, man. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I know what I’m doing, Sam!” Dean shouts back.

“No! You don’t! You go off on these crazy hunts when you don’t know what you’re dealing with. You don’t ask for my help. This can’t keep happening!” Sam doesn’t care what he’s saying now, doesn’t care that he’s getting just as angry as Dean. “Everybody’s worried about you, Dean!”

Dean takes a step forward, getting in his brother’s face. “Well, you don’t need to worry! I can take care of myself!”

“Yeah, you can take care of yourself,” Sam agrees sarcastically. “But then you go off your meds again, and guess who’s the one tracking you down and making sure you don’t get yourself killed? I can’t keep doing this, okay? I left school for you. Jess and I moved across the country for you. It’s not just your own life you’re ruining!”

He regrets it the instant he says it. The stress of the past couple of days has just finally caught up with him, and he can’t take it any longer. Even since he’d received that frantic phone call from Carmen a few days ago, it’s been all about Dean.

_(“Sam?” she’d cried desperately. “You’ve gotta help me. Dean’s on a ‘hunting trip,’ and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”)_

A hurt look flashes across Dean’s face for a fraction of a second, but Sam still sees it. His brother goes quiet, tugs his jacket back on, and shoves past Sam to get out to the hotel hallway, door slamming shut behind him.

“Dean, wait!” Sam calls, but doesn’t make a move to follow him. Going after Dean now will only make it worse, and it’s already bad enough. _Nice going, Sam,_ he silently berates himself. He sits down heavily on the bed, feeling more drained than he normally does after one of these kinds of arguments. He’s just tired. Tired of this cold, tired of having a crazy brother, tired of everything always being so unpredictable, so stressful.

He flops back on the bed, closing his eyes against the bright light from the lamps, and within minutes, he’s out.

* * *

“Sam?”

…

“Sam, wake up.”

Something’s shaking him.

“C’mon, man, wake up.”

Sam opens his eyes, blinking against the light. “Dean, no,” he mumbles, voice raw and scratchy. “We’re not going after the skinwalker.” He rolls over in the bed and presses his face into the pillow, trying to will himself to get up and deal with his brother. His head is pounding, and he can’t breathe through his nose anymore.

“No, not that,” Dean’s voice says, and he doesn’t sound angry anymore. “I got you… stuff.”

Sam turns his head and squints in his brother’s direction.

Dean is sitting on the edge of the other bed, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Beside him is a convenience store plastic bag and a big floral-patterned box of tissues.

“Wha, uh…” Sam falters, confused.

Dean looks up at him, guilty and apologetic. “You’re sick,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, muffling a sudden sneeze into the blankets.

“I’m sorry.” Without another word, Dean picks up the box of tissues, rips off the cardboard seal, and hands the box to his brother. “I know I’m crazy. I’m sorry.”

“Dean…” Sam murmurs, reaching out to take the box.

“Um…” Dean starts, sounding unsure of himself. “We can stay here – just until you’re better – and then I’ll take us home. And… and I’ll figure it out, okay?”

Sam nods. “You don’t have to figure it out alone.”


End file.
